


Running the 5k or if You're Bucky it's a 6k and Other Adventures

by Voodoosgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: AO3 FB 5000, Anxiety, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Bucky Barnes implied, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Embedded Images, Fanart, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Good Boyfriend Steve Rogers, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl
Summary: A Thanksgiving Day food hangover. A 5k road race for a worthy cause. Numbers divisible by 3. For Bucky, it's a 6k because six is divisible by three. Kigurumi? What the hell is a kigurumi and are they really better than the Captain America sleep pants?Pambot3000 has kindly created A Kigurumi for Bucky art that is embedded in Chapter 5 and available through the link in the Author's Notes. Thank you!





	1. A Good Deed Planned

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Kigurumi for Bucky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292107) by [Pambot3000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pambot3000/pseuds/Pambot3000). 



> The first three chapters of this story were originally written in December 2017 for a Facebook AO3 writers/readers group challenge to celebrate the group reaching 5000 members. (It is now over 10,000 members!)
> 
> Chapter 4 continues the adventures of Bucky, Steve, Natasha, and Sam. Thank you for stopping to visit. Written in collaboration with Pambot3000 All my love.  
> Feedback and constructive critiques are always welcome! <3  
> 

  
"Hey. You two, Barnes and Rogers, remember the PDA lecture Sam gave yesterday? Still stands today, go to your room." Natasha tossed a pillow towards the other end of the sofa, "We're trying to recover here." 

Her aim pristine, it bounced off Bucky’s temple. The soft assault doing nothing to dissuade him from his current objective; the dogged undoing of one former Captain America nestled in the corner, legs stretched out on the ottoman, the willing recipient of Bucky’s possessive straddle of his lap.

The wafting sounds of foreplay a challenge even for Natasha's considerable focus. Her breathy sigh quick-morphing into a hum, then a mumble followed by a full-fledged spoken word rendition of the entire soundtrack of that musical Hamilton. Her skill at remembering all the words to the hottest show tunes, still not sufficient to drown out Bucky’s moaned “Mmmmm” a variable-toned stamp of approval depending on where exactly Steve located his hands on his body. Low pitched and subtle for back, hips, thighs; distinctly full-throated, robust with a hint of a whine for the finger excursions onto the tenderest of intimate skin.

Her bridge-too-far finally crossed with the chesty rumblings of Steve. Incomprehensible to an average human, her spy skills coming in handy, not to mention she’d heard it all before, his go-to acknowledgment that Bucky would be getting his way, a long and capitulating, “Fuuucckkkk meeeee.”

That and the way the entire sofa slid back, then forward, then sideways carrying her with it, like a symbiotic bird perched on the back of a rhino during mating season, convincing her to try and intervene.

Natasha's peeking eye over the latest edition of _Acta Psychologica_ revealed a cascade of brown hair covering both faces; a fleeting wonder about the last time she laid eyes on Steve's face, a moment's contemplation if she'd still recognize him not attached to Bucky. Her gaze shifting to assess their progress, hoping for clothing to still be involved. Bucky’s hands tight-gripping a chest; Steve's fingers dug into Bucky’s ass, an ownership declaration assisting the slow, undulating sensual rolling of Bucky's hips as encouraged, aided and abetted by Steve. 

As fascinating as they remained, Natasha drew the line when the Captain America sleep pants slid down Bucky’s hips. A sighed retreat, she pawed through the journal pages, wriggled her shoulders deeper into the sofa, laying claim to her one-fourth of the furniture, resuming her dissection of  _Gaslighting: Creative control of male roommates._  

The post-Thanksgiving meal stupor of turkey-induced tryptophan overload, compounded by the sausage-bread stuffing, crispy-onion topped green beans, sweet potato pie followed by eggnog threatened everyone's consciousness as well as their waistbands. At least Natasha and Sam were under its spell even if the super-serum-soldiers were not. They didn't observe that phenomenon with loosened belt buckles and snoring on the sofa while listening to endless football chatter on TV. Their celebration; sex. Long, slow and apparently as an exhibition. 

Not if Natasha had anything to do with the chosen location. “Boys seriously, rent a room. Oh wait, you have a room, two of them, use one!”

The only acknowledgment of her complaint was the pillow that landed in her lap after it hit her in the head. Bucky's blind targeting skills remaining spot-on. 

 

“Sam. What’s going on.” She tossed her attention to him, a creative use of her Journal to block her view of the boys.

"Facebook. I’m on Facebook.” He never looked up.

“You didn't use your real name right?”

“No. That’s something Barnes would do." Sam straightened his back, a sure sign that she’d regret her question, "I made one up.”

“Birdman.” Bucky's voice heavy with as yet unfulfilled sexual cravings wafting from the make-out session.

“No Barnes. Not Birdman. You're not funny, have I mentioned that?" 

Mildly intrigued, Natasha rolled with it, “What did you use?”

“This is great. Ready?” A swing around to face her, “Ok, here it is. Alrighty.” A ‘ta-da’ sort of hand motion preceded the dramatic-voiced, “Slaws Mino.” A repeat ‘ta-da’ motion for extreme emphasis.

Natasha offered the kind of stare that asks, "There's more, right?" 

Bucky's hips stopped undulating.

Steve’s left eye peeked out from under the curtain of hair.

The silence lasted approximately three seconds until Bucky's attempt to stifle a laugh ended with him spitting on Steve’s head. A muttered, “Sorry," as he wiped it off.

Steve ignored the faux pax and dragged the  _Captain America_  signature on the sleep pants down Bucky's ass to where it was no longer readable. 

Natasha closed her right eye trying to block them out, her left eye stared at Sam, “Where the hell did you dream that up.”

“It’s an anagram. I used an anagram generator online." Sam couldn't really get his back much straighter, "It’s my name.”

“That’s stupid.” Bucky's proclamation took nothing from his Steve-centric grinding, a proven multi-tasker.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, not so much at the name generated, more for the fact she agreed with Barnes, a brief excursion, she returned to her skills building article.

 

Sam took the defeat with semi-dignity and a less-straight back, he opened a new tab on the computer, “Black Friday sales. Everywhere. Look at this deal on a grill, we need a new one.”

“How could we need a new one we just bought one during the summer.” Natasha felt a little bad about the slump in his shoulders and played along.

Sam nodded his head towards the Barnes & Rogers duo in the corner, a hushed toned reminder, "Remember? Barnes blew up the last one testing the C4 detonators.”

Natasha offered a thumbs-up a silent acknowledgment.

Steve remained a bit touchy about the whole escapade since it took out the back porch windows and half the siding on the garage. 

It was hard to explain to the fire department.

“Yes sir, I understand sir. C4 is not a toy. My incorrigible assassin boyfriend who is peeing his pants laughing at us right now won’t ever do that again. I promise sir. I swear it. Pinky finger swearing.”

Steve didn’t really say any of that except for the thousand times he said “I’m sorry and no I’m not Steve Rogers, former Captain America. He doesn’t have a beard. I do.”

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Bucky muttered, “Black Friday?”

His sex desiring moans faded, the fluid straddling motion on Steve’s lap slowed down into the kind of stillness he reserved for missions and the onset of one of his memories.

Those memories.

The recollection of all that he did as the Fist of Hydra that fueled his spells of crippling guilt. A not-so-neatly tucked away monster under the bed that haunted his days and nights, stole sleep, hijacked dreams and pulled him from Steve’s embrace. Any number of obscure references could trigger the memories.

A faint pulling away from Steve, a chewed lip question, "Is that like Bloody Sunday?” 

Sam echoed his question, "Bloody Sunday?"

Steve’s fingers tightened on bare skin.

Natasha understood the reference, her “Nothing like that,” too late to sidetrack the inevitable panic.

 

“Bloody Sunday!” Bucky’s jump from Steve's lap left fingers still twitching looking for the hips they gripped seconds earlier. Feet driven to move, quick paced, back and forth, muttering his memories, “I was there, I think. Bloody Sunday. No? Yes!” A wild point at Natasha, bouncing two steps to one side, a shout towards Steve. “Yes! I was there. 1972 Northern Ireland, peaceful protesters shot by soldiers!" Dragging fingers through his hair, tugging at the thoughts as if he could pull them from his head. The anxiety demanding he move, pacing and muttering, seeing his history play out in his mind. The cold sweat that spread across his neck cooled quick on heated skin sending a shudder through his body. "Shit, shit. I did that!” 

The memories of what he did as the Soldier taking its toll.

Steve jumped to move beside him, step-for-step, a hand on his arm, catching his elbow to lead him out of the pacing. Looping Bucky's steps around to slow his forward motion down and down to bring him into a circling embrace. “Ok let’s just take a deep breath and move through this one.” His fingers spread wide on his chest, breathing long and slow, making him match the in and out until they could press forehead to forehead without the tremor. “Focus,” Steve whispered close. He was good at this part, talking him down from the memory-induced panic excursions. "You got this." 

 Steve held Bucky there for as long as it took for him to signal it was over. A nod and the quiet murmur of "Good to go."

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Bucky claimed the corner of the sofa.

Steve flopped next to him, an arm around his shoulder. “So it’s Thanksgiving. We’ve got a lot to be grateful for, maybe we should do something to give back.”

“Steve, we fight aliens to save the world, isn’t that enough?” Bucky wasn't ungrateful. It was more a question of territory. He'd just inherited the prized corner seat, Steve's body heat close, he curled, face buried against his neck, hands snaking under the too-tight T-shirt, Steve's fingernails raking across his scalp. Yup, he was staying put.

Sam chimed in, “I’m grateful. Grateful for pecan pie; a decent internet connection out here in the middle of the Adirondacks; and wings.”

Natasha adopted the Thanksgiving concept.”I’m grateful for a roof over our heads; Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Therapy, and no aliens.”

Bucky's husky voice muffled against Steve’s cheek, “Yup. Grateful. Food. The Glock in my pocket and Steve likes to top.”

“TMI buddy. Grateful you bottom, but TMI.”

His further mumble of “And he’s great at it,” thankfully consumed by Steve’s mouth.

“Okay. Good Deeds.” Sam got back to the search. “Well, we could collect canned goods for a shelter.”

“We do that anyway.” Natasha tossed the magazine on the coffee table.

“We do?” Sam remained a bit behind regarding the inner workings of the house.

“Yup. Where do you think all those cans of spaghetti end up?”

Bucky stopped humping Steve’s side.”What about my spaghetti O’s?”

“Barnes buys it by the caseload. I donate it.” She picked up a nail file and went to work.

“You gave away my spaghetti O’s? Damn, woman.”

“You buy it and never eat it. It’ll go bad. You’re a spaghetti hoarder.”

“You coulda asked.” He laced some genuine hurt in his tone but Natasha was a pro, she knew he was full of BS. Besides, he was back to sucking on Steve’s ear before he’d even said the word ‘asked.’

Sam wrangling the conversation back to his planning, “Alrighty then. We could pick a stretch of the highway and clean it.”

Bucky’s turn to stare, marking this as a particularly bad idea to drag him from face time with Steve.

Sam worked to recover, “Ok then, the peanut gallery is glaring. So, next idea. Here, how about this one. Save the Whales.”

Bucky stopped mid-suck to direct a reflective thought in his direction, “Too much swimming.”

Steve cupped his face with his hands, giving him that damn-you-are-so-adorable-look and asked, “You do know that saving the whales does not involve swimming?”

“I know that.” Bucky’s muttered quick recovery.

Sam’s decision to no longer offer random ideas until he’d found one that was worthy of group discussion lasted about fifteen minutes then, “Wait here’s a good one. A 5k race to benefit Aids research on December 1, 2017."

Natasha stopped filing, “That sounds interesting; details.”

Sam knew he had serious mojo happening on this one. He forged ahead. “Get a group together, get sponsors, run to benefit research.”

“Five thousand meters?” Seems the idea had piqued Bucky’s interest. He partially detached from Steve’s body.

Sam snapped, “Yes. 5k, you know what 5k is, come on, all that time with Hydra, they used the metric system didn't they?” The eggnog withdrawal became apparent.

Bucky snapped back, “We can’t run five thousand meters, it has to be six thousand. We can run 6k.”

Sam counter-counter-snapped, “6k? That’s not the race distance, it has to be 5k.” Sweat beaded along his hairline, a sure sign he needed a pecan pie refill to go with the eggnog.

Bucky didn’t back down, he slapped a hand on his own chest then grabbed Steve’s, “I don’t care. We, me and he, will run 6k. Right?” A dutiful nod and smile from the good-boyfriend confirmed his assumptions. "S-I-X  six K." He spelled it out just to be sure Sam got the picture. 

Bucky held fast to his OCD fetish of three and divisible by three. Any mention of numbers, and distances, or steps or bullets --- thankfully his Glock held fifteen. It all had to be in the three family. “It’s my coping mechanism.” He deadpanned. “My therapist says so.”

They didn’t catch on to the numbers thing for a while. It got interesting. Sam thought he was losing his mind. Or that Barnes was gas-lighting him just for the hell of it. Every time he’d set four plates out for dinner, one would disappear. Always at the chair where Barnes would sit.

“I know I set our four plates.” Sam would complain. 

“Sam what’s the deal. It isn’t funny to leave him out,” Steve's stalwart defense when it came to Barnes. Always thinking Sam was somehow dissing him.

“I am not excluding him. I set the table with four plates every time. And every time there are three just before dinner.”

"Well, I don’t believe in ghosts so what’s going on.” 

Bucky never saying a word, just stand in the corner perfecting the impassive 'Mom and dad are arguing over me look' and watch the argument drone on. A lot like that smug cat that everyone has met; the one that watches the poor fool of a dog get scolded for the broken flower vase that obviously was a cat thing; not a dog thing.

Sam finally got fed up and turned on the forbidden surveillance cameras. A whole other adventure in the land of Anxiety After Hydra  Syndrome. “Look. Just look at this." He pointed with great and personal emphasis at the screen for Steve. "It was him all along.” HIM. Said with the undertone of “That asshole.”

So, the three fetish. They finally agreed to set the table for three and left one plate in the cabinet that Bucky would take out for himself so he could feel he had some control over his own anxiety.

 

“Ok 6k for you and Steve. The rest of the entire world will run in the 5k.” Sam’s need for that pie and eggnog break became evident.

“That many? Wow. Imagine the starting line chaos.” Bucky did not disappoint when it came to living up to the accusations of being an asshole.

Sam announced, "Great. Let the planning begin,” as he stumbled towards the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PDA Public Displays of Affection :)


	2. Greves by any other name is Steve

Sam's pecan pie fueled excitement had him just about vibrating as he paced the living room, “We’ll need to register a team. We’ll need aliases. And sponsors. Lots and lots of sponsors."

Natasha chose to forego the sugar refueling trip to the kitchen, opting to continue her occupation of the sofa corner opposite the invading force of Steve and Bucky. Her phone and stun discs never far from her hand, she opted to use her phone to assist Sam, "I'll find the sponsor."

“We need to raise a lot of cash." His hand-wringing pacing stopped short in front of her, "Sponsor? Singular? We need spon-sors, plural, Nat, plural." 

“Everyone we know is either broke or Asgardian. I only know one rich guy and that’s who I’m calling.”

Sam cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, settled in front of the computer with as much dedicated purpose as he could muster all things considered and began, “Alright! Let’s get some names going. Nat, you’re up first." A flurry of tap-tapping on the keyboard, squint-eyed staring, and a gritted sigh, "Here we go, how’s this one? Navarosh Amantoa.”

The unnatural silence gave him his answer. 

“No? Fine. How about, Shanata Voramano?”

The room was not quiet. Bucky’s distinctive loud snicker drew a side-long glance from Natasha.

She instructed. “Try again.”

“Got it. Savannah Roamota.”

Bucky’s outright laugh was cut short by a discreet elbow from Steve.

Natasha was grateful. For the elbow and the improved alias. “Works for me.”

 

Sam rubbed his hands together, "Steve. You’re up next.”

Bucky sat up. “This should be good.”

A deep breath before the offering, “Grores Veets.”

The brief quiet room too good to be true.

Bucky groaned, “Grores? Grores! I love it," as he swung to straddle Steve and growl, “Oh, Grores! Deeper Grores, Fu...”

Steve’s hand covered his mouth, “Next option.”

“Okey-dokey. Let's try this one, Vergers Sote.” Sam cringed as soon as he said it.

Bucky licked Steve’s palm before pulling away, “Even better!” Launching another gravel-voiced mocking cut short when Steve rolled to his feet and dumped him on the coffee table.

It held up. Reinforced steel was the key. All the furniture had been modified from the time of Bucky’s Big Breakdown. Anything that couldn’t withstand being tossed against a wall was discarded.

It made Amazon shopping harder but the adjustment was worth it in the end.

Bucky remained unphased, sprawled on the coffee table, laugh-muttering "Grores, Vergers, oh, OH, Grorrreeess."

Sam wrested for their attention, "Come on, this is serious, I'm doing my best, try this one --- Greves Roset.”

“That's the one. Works for me.” Steve really needed to move on. 

Bucky didn't cackle much in general but when he did it meant Steve would be very, very busy.

Bucky cackled --- loud cackling, as he planned his evening’s entertainment. All the annoying ways he could whisper Grores or Vergers or Greves in the middle of sex.

It was going to be a long night for Steve.

 

Sam went in for one of those moments he lived for, stopping Barnes in his tracks, “Finally. Last but certainly not the least among us. Barnes.”

Bucky stopped laughing. He remained supine on the coffee table though.

It was hard for Sam not to think this name was a gift from the anagram gods, “Sucken Byarb.”

Steve sucked in his cheeks to keep from laughing. Bucky and sullen did not go well together. Laughing at him was a known trigger.

A firm rejection, “No. That sucks.”

Another fine offering, in Sam's humble opinion, “Alrighty then, Scrubby Kane.”

Natasha nodded without looking up from texting, “Scrubby works.”

Steve clung to his facade of neutrality, sucking in his cheeks helped. It was his best tactic until Bucky’s opinion could be read.

A dismissive all-inclusive wave, “No. Stupid. I am not a Scrubby.”

Sam's attention span started to wane, “One more then that’s it, find your own alias. Last one --- Cranks Yebub.”

“Perfect!” Steve blurted. Who knew sucking in your cheeks for that long would make his eyes hurt? The abrupt approval would cost him later but it gave him a comeback for the post-coital “Oh, Greves-Vergers!” whispers.

Total rejection, “NO! Not acceptable.” Bucky's move from being splayed flat on the coffee table to standing upright in seconds, a testament to his workout ethic. 

Natasha gave his muscle control an admiration eyebrow raise. Hell, Sam admired it, in silence. Steve felt a twinge in his groin just thinking about it. 

“I’ll use my code name. Dodger.” Bucky called it quits and stalked into the kitchen. 

Steve gave some thought to more serious matters, like cleaning the bathroom, to refocus himself before tagging behind him.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Natasha headed for the fridge. She ignored Bucky as he leaned across the far end of the kitchen island.

Mostly she ignored him because Steve was wrapped tight around his back with his hands discreetly buried somewhere on Bucky’s bare skin.

Sometimes she just ignored him independent of whether Steve was attached or not.

“What are you boys up to now?” It was a rhetorical question. What they were up to was obvious.

Steve offered, “Nothing.”

He was doomed really. He still had some 1940’s sensibilities. Sex only in the bedroom. Cover the trash can. Don’t litter.

Then Bucky came back, “We’re engaged in foreplay. Get out of here.”

She prolonged her search inside the fridge just to mess with their rhythm.

Followed by annoying small talk, “So we have a team name. Interested?”

“No.” Bucky grabbed the paper towels to unroll them across the island, down the side and out across the floor.

Steve remained the polite one, “Yeah. Sure.” But he didn’t give up his attached-to-Bucky position. 

“Secret Avengers.” She poured a glass of eggnog.

“Great idea. Now go away.” Bucky tossed a balled up paper towel at her.

Steve looked concerned, “Is that a good idea? It’s so obvious.”

“Hide in plain sight. No one’s going to think it’s real Rogers, lighten up.” She took a seat and proceeded to drink her eggnog, slowly.

Bucky killed time studying the uplifting pseudo-caligraphy message emblazoned across each and every sheet of the towels.

“What the hell is this on here?"

“A little light reading." Natasha retrieved the roll from the floor to study the prose from her end.

Sam wandered in. He didn’t want to miss this. The paper towel message was his idea and his specific target was directly in the crosshairs. He tugged off a random sheet and read the message aloud. 

“ _Each Morning is a N_ _ew Opportunity to Shine. A Chance to Give the Past a Kick in the Pants and the Future a Bear Hug.”_

“Just for grumpy you, Barnes.” Sam was proud of himself, "Always thinking of you, pal." 

“I am not grumpy and I am definitely not your pal." He twisted around to face Steve, his hands wandering to pull hips closer, "I am his pal and only his pal," his throaty murmured declaration nearly lost in the deep throat kiss that ensued.

Sam bumped his shoulder to Natasha's as he sat down, "Fine. Not your pal, but I'm Nat's pal, right?" 

She offered the dreaded non-committal smile, sipped her eggnog and headed to the living room.

"Damn." He followed. 

 

 

Later that night Bucky used all six rolls of paper towels to clean his guns. Even though you never use paper towels to clean guns. He made an exception this time.

Even later that night Natasha and Sam had to turn on the sound machine --- again, to cover the annoying and mournful moans of "Greves" and "Scrubby!" 

 

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

12/1/17 World Aids Day 5K race (6K if you're Bucky and Steve) here we come!

 

Sam spearheaded their efforts. “We’re ready to go. Run as a team. That means Rogers you need to stay with us. Or run circles around us.”

Bucky's anxious reiteration, “Right Rogers. You need to stick close, no racing off by yourself.” He didn’t like crowds, or people, or loud noises, except when fighting. He definitely didn’t like losing sight of Steve. 

Missions were different. He had a gun or three in his possession and a job to do. Running wasn’t a job. It was something to be endured for the sake of the mission or to make Steve happy.

“Got it. I’ll be right with you.” Steve didn’t like losing sight of him either.

Bucky frowned as he scanned Sam's wanderings with their entry paperwork. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Sam ignored him. He was pretty stoked about his and Natasha’s matching spandex. He wasn’t going to let Downer Dodger ruin his high.

“How come we don’t match like that?” Bucky whispered as he shadowed Steve through the crowd. 

“Spandex? You want spandex?” 

Bucky stared at Steve's ass as they walked, a brief contemplation, “I can think of one situation where that would be interesting and it doesn’t involve being in public.”

Natasha wandered into their conversation. “What? No Captain America sleep pants?”

Bucky frowned, “I couldn’t find them.”

Natasha's offered wink towards Steve got a shrug in return. One of those shrugs, purposeful, yet deflecting, a hint of collusion. That day wasn't laundry day generally speaking but maybe it was, maybe there needed to be an extra load or two.

“What’s that all about?” Bucky wagged a finger between them, eyes squinting back and forth. His paranoia served a purpose most days. Kept him safe, alert to danger and threats and other subterfuge. Like Nat and Steve winking at one another in knowing ways.

“Something in my eye.” She rubbed until her mascara smudged a bit. “I’m shocked. No Cap gear.”

The mere mention of Cap gear served its purpose, throwing Bucky off the trail, "I’m wearing Cap gear. All day, every day. Cap gear.” He nuzzled his face deep into Steve's neck.

Natasha scanned his clothing, black sweats, long sleeve black T-shirt, no signs of the shield or signatures, “I’m afraid to ask.”

His full-body lean, chin on his shoulder almost but not quite knocked Steve off-balance, “On my underwear. Little tiny shields.”

She winked, “How appropriate.” 

Steve frowned, “You don’t even wear underwear.”

Bucky whispered in his ear, “Wearing them today. And they have little tiny shields on them.”

Natasha bowed out of the underwear debate as she wandered away, “More than I want to know, boys.”

 

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Sam's organizational skills kicked into high gear, “Numbers. Here we go. Steve, you’re number 43. Natasha’s got 34, I’ve got 7 and Barnes you’re 22.”

Bucky stared with some disappointment at the white sheet of paper with the large block 22 on it. Everyone else pinned on their numbers. Nat and Sam started stretching.

Bucky stared with deep intensity.

“You Ok?” Steve jogged tight circles around him.

A mumbled and kind of sad, “No.”

His jogging circle tightened, “What’s wrong? This is easy. 6K there and back. Home for dinner in under two hours.”

“No. I can’t go," metal fingers held the paper away from his body, high likelihood of it being laced with a poison.

“What is it?”

“The number, Steve. I can’t use that number.”

Steve stopped jogging, he pulled at his number, “Take mine.”

Bucky shook his head, “That won’t work. It has to be divisible by 3. You know that.”

A near to his ear whisper, “It’s just a number on a piece of paper.” 

“No, it’s not. It’s more than that.”  Heads brushed close. 

Steve patted his cheek, "Come on, let's ask for a different number then," he led the way. 

But registration was closed. “We gave them all out.” 

Bucky stood at the desk,  a picture of dejection, two-finger holding his disappointing and unlucky number 22.

Steve tugged him towards the restrooms, “We’ll think of something. Let me take a leak. I’ll be right back.” 

A muttered, "Don't leave me." 

Steve grabbed his biceps, planted him on a manhole cover, and let their foreheads meet, "Stand right here. Two minutes, then we'll fix this, I promise." And he was gone.

 

Bucky stood dutifully in the assigned spot, deep breathing, which never worked except to make him dizzy. The all-consuming anxiety a royal pain in the ass at times like these, most of the time --- all of the time.

It fed the Voice in his head. The one that made fun of him with snide remarks and reminded him of his loser status.

The Voice had been quiet over the last few months. Getting on track with redemptive work helped. Bucky felt sex with Steve had been the key. The optimized medication regime languished at the bottom of the list. 

Stress set the Voice free. 

“ _You can’t even wear a non-three related number for two hours? What’s the point of recovery if you’re still stuck on threes?”_

Bucky didn't often talk to the Voice out loud, it just made for some awkward conversations, and staring, lots of staring, but back to that stress thing, “Shit. Go away. I got this. Your help is not needed.”

“ _Right. You’re going to do what now? Go home? Wait at the bike? Cry? How about you trade numbers with someone.”_

A long contemplative stare at the paper with the dreaded number 22. A scan of the crowd, search for Steve, back to the paper, the crowd, no Steve, the stupid paper and --- he hated when the Voice had a good idea.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Bucky approached his third target with a genuine amount of timidity, “Ah. Hi. Would you consider trading numbers with me?” They didn't run away.

The first attempt at number trading a lesson learned. 

“ _Don’t stare at a woman’s chest, Soldier.”_

“I know that. I’m socially awkward not stupid. I’m staring at the numbers. Besides the only chest, I’m interested in is Steve’s.” It didn't help that his side of the Voice argument was spoken so everyone could hear him. 

The second target situation proved well, awkward, more awkward. A magnificent THREE yes 3 on a specimen of a man with a glorious brawny chest, not quite as perfect as Steve's but pretty damn close. Not that Bucky noticed. 

“ _Perfect! Soldier. A solid single digit 3!”_

Bucky asked for his number. 

His exact words, “Hey, can I have your number?”

Innocent enough. It went downhill from there.

Bucky muttered with a renewed social awareness that people could hear him, “Yes I asked for his number, then he asked for my number. That's how it works. I thought he meant the race numbers. How was I supposed to know he meant phone numbers?”

“ _You should’ve given it to him. He was hot.”_

Bucky hated the Voice for a lot of reasons, attempts at match-making was just one of them.

He utilized his newly cultivated skill of discretion to walk away after the guy's hand ended up cuddling his balls. 

“Not telling Steve about this one. He’ll use the handcuffs again.”

_“I recall you really got off on those handcuffs. Maybe you should tell him.”_

 

The Fist of Hydra didn’t generally utilize a subtle approach but Steve had been a good influence. 

The asset would have shoved target number three to the ground, ripped the number off their chest and thrown a crumpled number 22 at them.

The softer approach seemed to be working on the young wisp of a girl with a New York Rangers baseball cap, a long blonde French braid and a larger than life 33 on her chest. Applying the earlier feedback, he stared at her ball cap and kept his conversations with the Voice internal. 

“Right. So I have a problem.” He shifted his feet letting his anxiety flow downward.

The young woman eyed him with some suspicion.

“I have OCD.” He blurted out before she could run screaming for the cops. Like the stupid second target guy did even though he started it, Bucky felt his chokehold had been righteous. 

“I have anxiety and I can’t wear this number 22. It won’t work.” He held it out like a dirty diaper.

She eyed him but didn’t leave.

“I need the number 3 or divisible by 3. You have 33. That would work. So. Would you trade?”

A tremor shaking his hair and quivering his stomach, he waited semi-patiently for the big moment hoping he wouldn’t have to throw her unconscious body in a dumpster so he could run this damn race with Steve and be done with it.

 

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“Hey. Where were you? I came out and you were gone.” Steve caught up with Bucky and the others at the back of the starting crowd.

A fake casual shrug, “Oh, I was fine. Just walking around.”

Steve's hand lingered on Bucky's chest, a smile as he traced the numbers, “I see you found a better number, 33. How’d that happen?”

No big deal, “I traded with someone.”

“Great. I'm glad you figured it out. As long as you’re happy. I’m happy.” Steve threw an arm around his shoulder and planted a quick kiss on his cheek despite being in public.

A mumbled, “Yeah well, I can be pretty persuasive.” He glanced around scanning the crowd, fingers tucked in Steve's waistband, not letting him slip away. 

 

The big moment arrived! A man on the PA system calling out:  “Alright everyone lets get this race started!”


	3. No Winners, No Losers, Just Friends

The loudspeaker's crackled message ratcheted up the air of excitement, “Runners to the front; walkers in the middle; dogs and their humans to the back of the crowd!” 

“And we’re off!” The pop of the starting gun sent the ambitious horde on their way.

Team Secret Avengers loitered at the rear. Behind the dog brigade. 

“Barnes, watch your step!” Sam offered as he pointed to a dark brown deposit on the street, "Someone forgot their poo bags."

His kindness gifted with the classic Bucky scowl and an awkward stumble. “Right, I see it.”

Steve bounced with intensity as the walkers and dogs lurched forward.

“You’re vibrating. Stop it.” Bucky instructed from his sprawl across the hood of a parked car.

“Feeling good. Energized. Aren’t you excited about this?” He pumped his arms in a dorky kind of way.

“Me? Excited? Wildly.” He added extra syllables to wildly and adjusted his pose for genital comfort.

 

Natasha jogged by waving a purple wristband. “Rogers. I almost forgot. Here. Make Barnes wear this. See ya.”

She tried to shove it in his hand.

“Whoa, wait a minute. What’s this about?” He grabbed her wrist.

“It’s a pedometer.” She jogged away as far as their connected arms would allow.

“Why this and why just him?”

Natasha jogged backward. “It’s required. Race rules.”

Steve frowned his protect-Barnes-at-all-cost frown.

Sam opted for distance while watching the pedometer pass off. He stood on the sidewalk, smiling. A lucrative bet with Natasha was on the line. The question: Can Natasha get Steve to put that pedometer on Barnes?

“Steve will do it. He can get him to do anything.” She retorted with confidence.

Sam laughed one of those melodramatic mocking laughs. “Money. Put up the money. No way.”

Not one to be cowed by a mocking laugh, Natasha dug in her pockets. “$1.84 you are on, Birdman. If Rogers can get Barnes to clean the fridge then he can get this damn pedometer on his wrist.”

“Big spender.” Sam scoffed but he was not one to give up on a bet. No matter the stakes.

They chose not to rehash the minor point that Barnes cleaned the fridge by throwing out every single item in it, including the thermometer.

 

Sam watched the scam unfold.

The Steve and Natasha pas de deux reminded him of a Beauty and the Beast Disney on Ice production he’d watched on the Cartoon Network one sleepless night at 4 AM.

Natasha curled in against Steve’s chest, “He has to wear it.” She jogged away.

Steve held tight to her hand. “Wait. Let me guess. The sponsor. It’s Stark isn’t it?”

“Shhh. Not too loud. Barnes is right there.”

He tugged her in for the dramatic embrace. “Why? Why only Bucky?”

She looked up, batted her eyes and whispered. “Money. It’s all about the money.”

 

Bucky’s mumbled voice interrupted. “You do know that discussing me while I am within earshot is a trigger for my anxiety. It pains me.” He played the sympathy card frequently since the odds of it working were about one out of three. Not a bad return on little investment.

 

Natasha ignored him. “Steve. Five thousand dollars a kilometer. Each of us. But only if Barnes wears the pedometer. Stark thinks he’ll cheat.”

Steve reflected on this test of his loyalty. He was true to Bucky, defended him against 117 nations, Hydra, Pierce, Stark, and now even his teammates. Steve would suffer, starve, die for Bucky. He stood with a determined, contemplative look on his face for a minute, then two, then to the magic number three.

“You’re taking too long there pal. What’s the problem?” Bucky pushed up from his sprawl.

Steve’s internal debate rapidly descending into a good angel-bad angel scenario in his head. He stood as the proverbial innocent in the middle. 

A long-haired guy with a metal arm took on the dual angel roles.

Bad Angel: “Listen, buddy, that’s a lot of money for a worthy cause.”

Good Angel: “Stark is screwing with me. Again. There’s no debate here.”

Bad Angel: “Don’t listen to that crybaby over there. Stick that purple bracelet on him and let’s get going.”

Good Angel: “Sex, Steve, sex. I have a bag of condoms and I know how to use them.”

Bad Angel: “Rogers, come on. I know you’ve got a dark side. Take the bracelet. You’ve seen him after a fight, he looks good in purple.”

Natasha interrupted the debate by wiggling the pedometer in his face.

The dog brigade had moved along, all the runners and walkers were fading into the distance. A decision had to be made.

Steve set his jaw and braced for the aftermath. “Give it to me.”

“No way, Rogers.” Bucky pulled his punch at the hood. He already had the cops looking for him, no sense adding to his list of offenses during this outing. He added an awkward spin move instead and shouted, “Traitor." His accusatory pointing at Steve was emphatic, followed by the loud announcement, "Hey! Anybody need a bag of condoms!”

Steve started laughing and wrapped the offensive purple item around his own wrist. “Calm down. People are staring.”

Bucky didn’t miss a beat. He full body pinned Steve against the car to preview his post-race plans of how deep he could push his tongue into Steve’s mouth without making him choke. It was a beautiful thing. 

Secretly, Steve loved this part.

“Okay, we’re out.” Natasha’s good-bye fell on deaf ears as she and Sam followed the pack. The great bet debate would go on through the race and on into the night. The $1.84 sat in the swear jar for a week. Bucky finally stole it. He justified the theft as righteous since it was about him anyway.

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Steve ran ahead; around, up, down. On the road, the sidewalk, over a hill, if there was a dale, he’d have run through it.

Bucky plodded along, slow and steady; never quite losing sight of Steve, at first. He was persuaded to let him run amok when the prize was bilking Stark of a few thousand dollars. His usual pool of mild melancholia was replaced by a quiet joy at the ruse. His cautious uncharacteristic excursion into happy thoughts was suddenly interrupted.

“Hello!”

Bucky kept running. Eyes on the road. There were those doggie landmines after all.

“Hi. Remember me?” A number 22 woman with a Rangers ball cap fell in beside him.

Anxiety sweat started forming in his armpits. “No. That wasn’t me staring at your chest.”

“You never took your eyes off my hat. I liked that.” She laughed and added, “We traded numbers. Remember?”

“Right. Numbers. Good. See me run. See me run with people around.” He followed that little commentary with a mumbled, “See me run while not chasing an alien or a bad guy.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you look nervous.” She jogged a lot like Steve, he thought, mincing little steps to keep pace with his slower methodical stride.

“Me? Nervous? No, no I’m good. I got this.” Now the sweat was creeping up his neck making him grateful for the ponytail. Not that he ever gave much thought to his hair. Well, except to keep it long - for Steve. He seemed to really, no really, really like it. Especially during sex. A loose and tangential picture of two nights previous flashed across his mind. Steve tucked in close, right where Bucky wanted him to be twenty-four seven, and then his hand dug into a fistful of his hair and next thing he felt was that tug on his scalp pulling his hair and his head fell back against his chest, while Steve drove his hips deeper into his ass so that Bucky had to moan despite being in the kitchen while Nat and Sam were watching a movie in the living room...

“Hello? Are you ok? You look distracted." The lilting female voice interrupted his sex excursion. "I’ll run with you. Maybe that will help.” 

He looked at her in a manner reminiscent of the first time he saw aliens on a mission. He mumbled. “Who are you?” 

“Naomi." She smiled. 

Bucky was still stuck on the hair thing, and Steve. He hated to give up on a good sex daydream so he finished his musings. "Who knew he’d have a hair fetish?" Bucky wasn’t one to complain, about Steve's hair fetish anyway. He vowed he wouldn’t give up the quest to get Steve to grow his out just a little. Fair is fair.

"Ah, hi, my name is Naomi. Nice to meet you.” The woman was still there, proving to be real and not a figment of his imagination. She extended her hand while still jogging neatly along the roadway. 

He stared at the offering for long enough that he only had a nanosecond to respond with a cool twisting avoidance maneuver before plowing over another wisp of a woman, this one with a baby stroller occupied by a medium sized fluffy dog.

The Winter Soldier was a well trained, agile, competent athlete. Bucky felt it showed in his graceful dance away from a near total disaster. Unfortunately, the bevy of onlookers disagreed. The spiraling move devolved into a stumble, followed by a knee skid and a tight tuck and roll, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws that grazed his face as he soared past the stroller. His landing culminated with his signature move, the metal fingers dragging on the concrete with enough of a screech that his new bestie Naomi displayed a tilted head look of wonder.

“Shit.” The swear word blurted before he could contain it.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry.” She rushed to his sprawled form on the ground.

Bucky employed another adept move to recover into an upright stance. He glanced around, not so much looking to see who saw his graceful move, but to see if Steve saw him look like a fool. 

“Good, I’m fine.” He brushed himself off and tucked his metal hand in a pocket since the finger was popping out and Naomi was staring intently.

“ _You’re quite the charmer, Soldier. You nearly killed that woman and her dog. A big man like you running over them. You never used to be this clumsy. Maybe it’s time for a brain wipe.”_

“Are you hurt? That sounded, awful.” Number 22's voice full of concern.

“Yup. All good.” He shuffled in a circle flexing his knees in a mock show of being all good. 

“ _She heard our metal arm. Look at her. She’s intrigued. Show her. Go ahead, show her. Do it, Soldier. Do it. Do it. Do it.”_

Sometimes the Voice was a lot like Steve. The way he'd goad him into doing stupid shit like eating a whole ghost pepper or jump off the roof into the back of the pickup truck-while Steve is driving it at forty miles an hour. Or like his most recent dare, wash all of Natasha's wool sweaters and put them in the dryer trying to be helpful.

His ability to resist Steve was virtually nonexistent in all things.  Even if it meant sleeping in an undisclosed location for a week and spending his pilfered money on replacement sweaters. 

Steve ruled all of Bucky.

The Voice came in a distant second.

He looked at the torn glove on his metal hand. He envisioned pulling it off, waving at the gawking crowd, shaking hands. “Nope. Not today."

“ _Come on Soldier, do it. Tell her about Hydra. Women looovvve a bad boy. Especially one with a tortured past and a heart of gold. Not that you have a heart of gold. You don’t. Oh, right and the hair, they love that long hair!”_

Bucky’s groan doubled him over and led to a snarled, “Shut up!”

His new found friend worried. She enlisted assistance.

“Are you alright?” A woman in green scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck came into the scene.

“Yeah. Cramp.” He remained doubled over and rubbed at his calf.

" _So creative. Remind me to disappear next time you get caught by Hydra."_

 _“_ Piece of s...” Bucky cut short his witty if vulgar comeback for the Voice since he still had enough awareness that he was drawing a crowd.

“Here, you look pale, drink this.” Naomi deftly ripped open a packet of electrolytes with her teeth and shook it into a bottle of water all while continuing to jog in place. Bucky observantly noted she hadn’t missed a step since the whole adventure began.

“ _A woman after your own heart. No moss growing under her feet. May_ _be a good option_ _if things don’t work out with_ _your boyfriend. Ask for her number, it worked so well with that guy earlier. Who knew a race was such a great place to get some action._ _”_

Once again, timing is everything. The Voice’s comment came as Bucky swigged down the water.

He coughed. Then choked.

The stethoscope woman yelled with a damn scary amount of authority, “Can you speak? Are you choking?”

He really did try to speak. He wanted to speak. He wanted to yell, “Everyone, just get the fuck away from me. You’re stressing me out!” But for whatever reasons, anxiety, embarrassment, water in his trachea, whatever, no words came out.

Then he did it, the sure universal sign for choking. His hand went to his neck.

It was over.

His anxiety morphed into a white cascade of stars with strange haunting music in the background as the crowd surged forward and the medic wrapped her arms around his middle and did a series of intense and picture-perfect jabs up. Heimlich and Hydra would’ve been proud.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Steve breezed past the police controlled crowd at the starting line. The first time.

On his second 5k run he had to skirt around the enlarging but well-controlled crowd of women, baby strollers and a couple of squat dogs that couldn’t take the 5k pace. He got suspicious during his third time around. Bucky was nowhere to be found.

“Hey! Are you Steve?” Someone yelled.

His first impulse was to protest, “Nope. Just call me Greves. Not Steve. Don’t know any Steve.”

But the woman calling his name had a bold 22 on her chest. He thought he’d better fess up.

“Yeah. I’m Steve. Where is he?” No sense spending time on formalities. “Is he hurt? Are you hurt? Is anyone else hurt? Are there police involved?” He thought better of asking about aliens.

“No, no one is hurt. I think he had...a panic attack.” Naomi whispered knowingly as she dragged him towards the milling crowd.

It parted in a wave to either side. He had a flashback to a childhood story, something about the Red Sea and Moses.

He looked down at the center of the crowd's attention. A guy with long dark hair sitting on the grass being licked in the face by a dog dressed in a jogging outfit. "Buck?"

“Steve!” Bucky jumped from his cross-legged meditative position to crash into Steve for a three-second hug that awkwardly morphed into a brotherly appearing pat on the back. The aborted embrace still got the dogs barking and drew a hushed chorus of “Awwws.”

Steve later mounted a stubborn defense that his flush had been running-induced.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Bucky muttered, “I didn’t run the race. I barely got off the start line.” They walked the race course side by side watching the cleanup crews.

Steve countered, “I ran it three times so that should cover you.”

“Not the same thing. Stupid anxiety.”

“Then let’s run it now.” Steve’s fingers skimmed along Bucky’s hand, a teasing invitation. “Let’s go, dare ya to beat me.”

“No. It’s over. I missed it.”

“Look the start line is right there, I know the finish line is still there I passed it three times already." He jogged in place but leaned in close, "It’s not over 'til we say it is. Come on, Buck. Let’s do this.”

“You are a pain in the ass, Rogers.” He groaned, then head-faked towards the bike. Steve fell for it or at least he acted like it.

Bucky got a three-second head start on their full out head to head 6K race. the clean-up crew ignored them, but a few well-placed pedestrians applauded as the raced by. The finish line was still painted on the ground as Steve had promised, they crossed it side by side. No winners, no losers, just friends. 

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

Bucky went home a mostly happy man. All things considered, it had been a productive day. He had a pocket full of phone numbers for his new support group, "The Barnes Ladies Auxilliary Club" as Sam had unceremoniously dubbed it. 

“No, no thank you, I have a boyfriend, see, he’s right here.” His protests at the first five numbers fell on deaf ears.

“You’re so cute!” An older woman pinched his butt.

"No really, Steve! I didn't encourage that."

“Sweetie, call anytime you need to talk.” The woman with the dog winked.

He nodded dutifully. 

“We can go for coffee,” Naomi added as she gave him a peck of a kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t drink coffee.” He mumbled.

“ _Don’t lose_ _the numbers, just in case things don’t work out with the former Captain America.”_

He clutched the rainbow colored bag of condoms in multiple textures and consistencies as they finally headed for the bike.

Steve messed with his hair, an affectionate gesture reserved for special occasions in public. In private, all reservations were off.

“ _This is going to be great! Which color should we try first? They’re ribbed! Imagine that!”_

“Gonna double the dose of the medications when we get home.” Bucky threatened.

Steve bumped his shoulder, “So the Voice likes the condoms idea I take it.”

It was always weird when Steve seemed to know what the Voice was saying.

 <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

 

That night, long after dark and after the Dec 1, 2017, 5k celebration day of remembrance was over. Team Secret Avengers settled down.

Stark’s protests at the invoice and the photo evidence of who wore the pedometer rang through the house. “Rogers, you’re even more of a jerk than Barnes.” He paid up anyway. He’s that kind of guy. 

Natasha took the tongue lashing in stride. It was time well spent. She soaked her feet.

Sam shivered as he sat on the back deck, a light fall of snow hampering his detailed toothbrush work. He cursed the little crevices on the soles of his sneakers for being so receptive to dog poo. The one redeeming note to his self-appointed task besides not stinking up the house, he smirked at the thought of Barnes yelling, “Who stole my toothbrush” in the morning.

 

Bucky tucked himself back against Steve’s body, executing a perfect tight spoon of warmth and security for the requisite thirty minutes. A grounding touch that wasn’t sex or pain but a reaffirming connection between two souls that were once lost to one another but not anymore.

Steve signaled the end of the thirty minutes with a bite on his ear and a whispered, “What color should we start with?”

Bucky laughed. "Purple."

 


	4. A Kigurumi for Bucky

Bucky stuck innumerable things in Steve’s face over the years, blueberry pie and half-dead frogs during the Early Years; topography maps and coffee in World War II; during the dark age of “Who the hell is Bucky?” Steve became way too intimately acquainted with the barrel of an Uzi and the fascinating advancements made by Hydra in metal knuckle technology. These days Bucky was far more likely to stick malfunctioning electronics and his ass in Steve’s face, not at the same time, but generally in the same day. Everyday.

Today he offered a variation.

“What the _hell_ is that?” Steve’s confusion oozed out of his mouth despite his best efforts to support all of Bucky’s quirks and queries, this one had him stumped. His skeptical gaze dragged down the fuzzy item; a full-body-length bright blue, to red and white stripes in the middle that ended in bright red again, held less than six inches from his nose. It begged for a blurted, uncensored response.   

“I have no idea,” Bucky spoke with the solemnity he reserved for specific topics: Lying about his involvement in house disasters, trying to impress Steve and any and all interactions with one Sam Wilson. A metal two-finger grip on the faintest sliver of material, he thrust the questionable item half the distance closer to Steve’s face. A sucked in bite to his bottom lip as he studied the adorable way Steve’s eyes crossed when his feet remained rooted in place, a testament to his level of unadulterated Bucky devotion.

“What should I do with it?” A direct request for guidance. A sure sign of the perplexity of the situation.

“Where did you get it?” Steve’s slow hand attempt to send the item back towards Bucky met with a stiff-armed resistance that stalemated in a square-shouldered face-off, the soft garment hanging between them, two hands, flesh pressed to metal, fingers entwined. Bucky took the opportunity for a slow stroked taste of skin by a metal appendage, never miss a skin-to-metal opportunity, his basic tenet in life these days.

Steve broke their intimate moment of shared dilemma, “Please don’t tell me you ordered it online.”

“Noooo. You confiscated my credit card, remember?” Bucky didn’t hide his outright sarcasm at Steve’s parental-mimicking desperate measures. A door-slamming, foot-stomping response to his newfound joy of ordering an innumerable array of scented and flavored lubricants then stashing them in every corner of the house, by the hundreds. Steve went with the flow, a willing, enthusiastic participant in the great quest of sex on top of, in and under every piece of furniture in the house. Never wondering how the lube was conveniently right there wherever they ended up doing the deed.

The thrill of having Bucky back in his life out-did any curiosity as to why every time he went down on Bucky his mind flashed to apple pie and cinnamon toast. He chalked it up to olfactory hallucinations.

Until the fateful day when two things occurred: One, Sam’s dive on the sofa in preparation for an evening of reruns of _The X-Files_ popped open the six tubes that were stashed under the pillows, releasing a cacophony of smells that lasted for weeks despite open windows and odor absorption devices. And two, the bill came.

 

“No. You stole it?” Steve’s usual gorgeous blue eyes morphed into a sea of spiky green flecks that Bucky had come to associate with how miffed he was on a scale of 0 to 10. At this particular moment, he gauged it as a three, miffed without full-on card revoking pissed. Not like Mission Cartagena and the great stolen bikini argument. Romanova loved it, the bikini, maybe she loved the argument too, hard to tell with a Widow. Steve was not impressed with the stealing or with the fact that Bucky knew what size she wore. A quick flashback to the sweat-inducing pressure of explaining how body disposal skills translated into being adept at guessing bikini sizes.

It took three full days of raspy-voiced yammering, a quart of his treasured chocolate cherry ice cream and of course a blow job to finally tone down the green flecks back to his placid blue. Bucky didn’t mind the blow job part. Punishment with perks.

“I did not steal it.” A rush to qualify the denial, “It was given to me. By Wilson.” Bucky offered that tidbit of information with as much drama as he could muster which amounted to quite a bit. Steve thought he could hear an underlying dramatic musical score ghosting through the bedroom.

“Sam gave it to you?” They both looked with matching squinted-eyed caution and muttered, “Why?”

The question hung unanswered as their joined hands spread the item to its full glory between them. A full adult-sized bright blue Captain America footed onesie complete with a pillowed shield, attached red boots and the signature bold **A** on the goggled hoodie. The slow creeping smile that filled Bucky’s face reflected not only the heights of his joy over a new Captain America outfit but the depth of his cunning reserved for moments such as these.

Steve full-on recognized the dichotomy of that smile, “A Kigurumi? Are you serious? No, you can't."

“Wilson owes me.” A return to the ominous tone that spoke of past hurts, oaths made and vengeance left unsatisfied his quiet, somber finality, “He ruined my Captain America sleep pants. Remember.”

 

Bucky’s love of the sleep pants knew no bounds. Their appearance in the house a low-key affair, like some dark relic from the Golden Age of Dragons, the origin story remained a mystery. Dark blue with tiny silver, white and red shields all over them. Bright red _Captain America_ cursively written in strategic locations. He loved them so much that he never took them off. Nope. Never. Well except to have sex. Mostly. Yes, except to have sex because Steve insisted and yanked them off, which was one of the reasons Bucky wore them all the time for the rush of Steve tearing them off his body without actually damaging the delicate and worn threading.

There was something groin-wrenching about Steve Rogers full-body pressing him to the wall, tongue down his throat, hot fingers digging deep into the flesh of his ass, right before those fingers wrapped around the waistband of the Cap pants and tugged hard, yanking his hips forward. The feel of the soft fleece, slightly itchy material dragging down his thighs, the waistband elastic catching on his cock, Steve’s teasing linger of its pressure, not an all-at-once ripping away of clothing but a slow, nerve-tingling heat-producing run along his skin. The whole damn ritual drove him crazy, a word he was loathed to use given his current circumstance of persistent, repetitive behaviors and that damn Voice in his head. This small-c-crazy worked just fine.

Wash day proved challenging though. Bucky sitting on the dryer, naked, waiting for the wash cycle to be done. Arguing with Steve about putting them back on while wet.

“You’ll prune up your balls.” Steve’s logical argument.

“You’re gonna tear these off me in five minutes, so who cares. They’ll dry hanging on the end of the bed.” A one-footed hopping struggle to pull clean wet fleece up over his ass, “Better yet,” he stumbled to press Steve against the dryer, force his hands between his thighs, “They’ll dry just from your body heat.” A husky-voiced murmur, a hard thrust of his hips, followed by the tip of his tongue licking a wet line up Steve’s neck to end deep in his mouth. The rhythmic motion of rubbing groin to groin proved his point was valid. The only part of the sleep pants that were wet by the time Steve bent him over the washing machine was the hem.

Steve moved on from the wash-day struggle. Regarding the sleep pants, anyway, not the sex part. He gave up trying to wash them in the hope that Bucky would eventually notice the odor and creaky sort of stiffness that develops in material that has reached its maximum dirt quotient.

He didn’t.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

“Fifty bucks. Firm.” Sam’s index finger tapped insistent on the kitchen island, a micro-pool of sweat marked his place. “One hour. Starting, fifteen minutes ago. Roasted kigurumi. That thing will be up in flames in the grill by dinnertime right after the sirachi chicken.” Sam’s baseline calm and collected approach went out the window when it came to Barnes. A quiver in his voice, a hint of sweat at his temple the weird way his body projected an aura of intensity that washed over Natasha like a mini-sonic boom, the sure tell that he was revving up yet another battle of wits with their favorite assassin roommate.

The vibrational energy being emitted from his body a clear signal that money would be exchanging hands at the end of the battle. Not in his favor.

In the year since Bucky came home and the betting wars began Sam had lost the exact amount of one thousand, three hundred and forty-two dollars and sixteen cents. He won one bet by accident. A double negative that confused the hell out of him but he ended up with one dollar and eighty-six cents, so he was happy while it lasted. 

Natasha’s studious gaze never wavered from the three-color centerfold laid out on the counter in front of her. A hand brought the travel mug of coffee to her lips, a slow and thoughtful sip, a raised finger to stop his pulled in breath to continue his wagering, she quizzed, “Why are you antagonizing him. This will not end well. It never does.”

“I am not antagonizing. I owe him. This is payback, no, no, not payback.” A raised hand and awkward laugh, “This is a peace offering.” He leaned close, his confession vibrating in her ear, “I wrecked the sleep pants remember. He’s been stalking me ever since.”

His insistent stare at her cheek, her stubborn refusal to move her eyes from the centerfold, they collectively recalled the Captain America Sleep Pants Disappearance episode in the never-ending saga of Living With Barnes and Rogers.

 

Every day Bucky wore the same pants, sitting on the sofa, lying in the middle of the mahogany table in the tactical room --- during team briefings; wrestling with Steve on the gym mats, or worse. Sam attributed the heavy breathing emanating from the gym one night to an extra enthusiastic sparring session but the too distinct “Fuck me, Stevie” was a dead giveaway that grappling had progressed to the most invasive of holds, taking the “No holds barred” mantra to whole new meaning.

Those sleep pants, collecting dirt, day-in, and day-out, sweat, and lord knows what else in the microfibers of their pathetic existence, the final straw came when Sam walked in to see Bucky’s sleep pants-clad butt perched on the kitchen island next to the sliced honey roasted turkey, swiss cheese and bulkie rolls meant for lunch.

The fateful solo plan was formed, mapped out and executed within hours.

Sam Wilson for the good of his housemates and the protection of their health, under cover of darkness and the unabashed throes of wall-banging, bed squeaking sex between two well-endowed super soldiers, undertook the ultimate self-sacrificing mission. Obtain the offending garment and autoclave it, or at the very least soak them in bleach for a week. Falcon night-vision goggles strapped to his face, clean black sweats on his body, he belly crawled into Steve’s bedroom, the silent litany of “Don’t sweat, he’ll smell you,” dancing through his mind, he carefully, sneakily pulled the coveted Captain America sleep pants from the bedpost and stealth-crawled backward out of the room.

Sam was pretty damn proud of himself for this mission-accomplished moment. He braced for the aftermath.

A sweat-filled moment when Bucky confronted him in the living room the next day, a tremor shaking his hair, plain black sweats, Steve's sweats, a touch too long hanging low on his hips, the rasped question; "Did you steal my Cap pants, Wilson?" 

Sam almost felt bad when he lied, "Nope. I did not steal your Cap pants, Barnes." Technically not a lie, the pants were not 'stolen' only confiscated. Semantics. He attributed the queasy feeling in his gut to the bratwurst he had for breakfast, a suppressed burp seemed to encourage Barnes to move on, which prompted a mental note to add burping to his anti-Barnes arsenal of tactics.

The rest of the week was filled with alternately avoiding and observing Barnes literally tear the house apart searching for his beloved Cap sleep pants. Sam sat pensively on the deck sipping his Pina Colada as pot after pan flew past his head. A lasagna pan landing fifty feet out, he speculated how far the various sized pots would fly, sort of like Olympic shot put only without the painted lines. He marveled at the strength of the metal arm when a frying pan lodged in a tree trunk a mile out.

An offered frowny-face faux sympathy look when Bucky finally laid face-down on the kitchen floor for three hours despite Steve’s best efforts at persuasion. Natasha stepped over him, Sam skirted around him. Steve laid head-to-head with him. Ultimately he dragged him across the floor by both hands, up to his feet, threw him over his shoulder and off to bed they went rocking the wall once again.

Sam kept his regret a close-guarded secret, even from himself. Mostly it was a small tickle in the back of his brain that called him an asshole. Once; when Barnes drowned his sorrow soaking in the cold water tub and Natasha had to run to the basement bathroom. She was pissed and glared the knowing glare at Sam. That was the extent of his remorse.

  
Three weeks later said sleep pants were found in a bucket of bleach on the back porch, a faded murk of blue and white, streaked with red, utterly unrecognizable as an homage to the First Avenger. Sam, in a regrettable fit of guilt and remorse, admitted to the terrible deed. Needless to say, the aftermath was painful for all involved except Natasha who has a ton more sense than the boys and decided she’d lay low in Paris for a week and leave them to find their Kumbaya moment on their own. She padlocked her bedroom door, wired it to the electric socket and went on her man-free week unencumbered.

It took Steve three days to find Bucky sitting in a tree overlooking the house, his loaded sniper rifle cradled in hand. Black shoe polish smeared across his face, a bag of Doritos tucked in the crook of a branch; he finally climbed down when Steve promised to have sex with him on the bike. The one spot they’d missed during the great sex experiment. It took a whole lot of scrubbing to get that black stuff off both their faces.

Luckily Sam had a cold that week and dodged both figurative and real bullets by staying in the house the whole time. It helped that he avoided all the windows too. His mama didn’t raise a fool, he knew the sniper rifle was missing and wherever that rifle went so goes Bucky.

 

Sam’s insistent, quivering voice interrupted Natasha’s shuddering recall of the sleep pant escapade, “I have to end this. I can’t sleep. I don’t dare eat. Nat, I wake up to him standing in the doorway. No words, no movement. Standing, staring. I try to leave; he blocks the door. I have to call for Steve to come to get him. I mean I literally have to call him on his cell phone. In the next room, damn it. Every night he’s an inch closer. Last night,” A quick prairie-dog look around the kitchen, a resumed hushed tone, “He was lying in my bed. Shit. How does Steve do it? Those cold steel eyes, he doesn’t blink. Do you have any idea how creepy that is? Have you seen him do that?”

Natasha offered an unwavering stare, “Actually. Yes,” her gaze returned to the lovely Russian Blue cat family sprawled across the pages.

Sam’s obsessive focus began to rival Bucky’s, “Get this. Two days ago, he handed me a burger and smiled. Yes. Smiled at me.” An insistent tapped finger on the centerfold page, brushed aside by Natasha, “One of those corner-raised, out-of-his-mind diabolical smirks, holding out a jalapeno cheese-covered, pickle with mayo burger. Damn, I hated to throw that out but it had to go, had to go.”

“You don’t really think he’d try to poison you. Steve would withhold sex for a week, maybe more. He’d never chance that.” She pushed the centerfold to gaze at it from a new angle.

Sam shook his head and muttered, “He loved those sleep pants, Nat. It was an accident. A complete and total accident.”

Natasha’s raised eyebrow conveyed her skepticism, “Sam, cut to the chase. I’ve got an article about cat breeding to read here.”

“I got him a kigurumi. A Captain America onesie complete with pillow shield and a hoodie. Here’s the deal. It’s utterly ridiculous, and he’ll never wear it, he’ll laugh his ass off behind closed doors with Steve and toss it, no, he’ll burn it. I’m willing to take the hit; he can laugh all he wants at me if it gets me off the hook. I replaced the sleep pants with something so stupid and childish he’ll never wear it. No more obsession with Captain America. End of story.”

“You are aware that he has sex multiple times a day with the former Captain America correct?”

“Yes. I am acutely aware of that fact.”

“Great, just checking.” Natasha allowed for his momentary lapse of sanity and asked, “And you want to place a bet that he’ll burn the kigurumi within the next thirty minutes, is that the bet? Burn it versus wear it? Fifty dollars?”

“Yes, the clock is ticking, thirty minutes now and fifty bucks.”

Her cold-eyed Black Widow stare raked him down then up. Well, maybe the eyes of Natasha Romanova, a well-versed operative with numerous skills especially when it came to reading Sam and taking his money, she took up the challenge, “Two hundred dollars and you’re on.” The Red Room raised no fools either.

Sam shook his head, paused, looked at the clock, squinted at her, then, “You are on. Two hundred."

A heavy sigh, he stationed himself at the end of the island, a toe-tapping, knuckle-cracking bundle of anticipation. His eyes followed the slow tick-tock of the wall clock. 

His muttered, "One minute to go," didn't break Natasha's concentration on the absorption capacities of various kitty litters. He scrambled in his mind about the dilemma of contingency plans not thought out. What if Bucky doesn’t come down the stairs at all? What if he comes down in time but keeps the damn thing and never wears it? What if he gives it back and says, ‘Gee thanks, but it doesn’t fit, can you get extra, extra large?’ Worse yet what if he asks Sam to get one for Steve too? His anxious musings interrupted by the sound of soft padded feet approaching. The building anxiety got the best of him, he shuffled Natasha’s magazine out from under her eyes, she pressed a thumb to a trigger point in his wrist that sent a wicked zing of pain up his arm, he released the magazine and gripped the island’s edge. A long pulled in breath for the much-anticipated swinging of the betting pendulum.

 

Bucky slow sauntered into the kitchen, the classic rolling, I-got-my-shit-together stride that he liked to employ while on a mission or while screwing with Wilson. A straight-faced Steve trailing behind.  The nonchalant wander led to the fridge, the milk jug removed and brought to his mouth, sans glass, he chugged down the entire gallon. Wet white rivulets of milk missing his mouth to land unceremoniously down the front of the bright blue with red and white striped waist Captain America kigurumi aka onesie that wrapped around his body. A quick wipe of his mouth with the faux red fleece Cap gloves, Bucky pulled the hood over his head, adjusted the eye holes to his face, looked straight at Wilson and grinned, probably the biggest grin Sam had ever seen cross good old Barnes’s face ever.

The open-palmed tap of Natasha's hand on the counter woke Sam from his stupor.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kigurumi" comes from a combination of two Japanese words: kiru("to wear") and nuigurumi ("stuffed toy"). Traditionally, it referred specifically to the performers wearing the costume, but the word has since grown to include the costumes themselves. A one-piece garment with a hood.


	5. Scamming Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well here we are, a long time coming. No pun intended XD. Bucky still has that kigurumi on, Sam is still in a battle of wills with him, Natasha's playing all sides and Steve...well Steve just wants Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to have the amazing and wonderful Pambot3000 provide her adorable artwork for this story! Thank you Pambot3000. Thank you readers!

  

                                                                                                           

                                                                                      

Bucky had Steve exactly where he wanted him: On his knees approximately three centimeters from his groin.  
  
Legs spread the precise width needed to allow broad, sculpted shoulders to nestle heat between his thighs. Hands nudging playful with his junk. Bucky’s mesmerized stare down the length of his body caught in the riveting embrace of Steve’s blue intensity wide-open staring right back at him.  
  
Knees losing their lock, a stumble back, hands catching the wall. Rush of fiery warmth chasing across his skin, bead of sweat forming to trickle undulating down his chest, directly towards the object of his obsession. Craven ache for that drop of sweat to slide unencumbered to the open mouth awaiting its arrival. Blue gaze flickering to the droplet pulled back to lock with his eyes by Bucky’s faintest of whines.  
  
A sight to behold. Steven Grant Rogers, former Captain America, the rhythmic darting of his tongue in perverse persuasion. The man sometimes known as Nomad, occasionally answering to Jerk and/or Punk, always utterly controlled by the endearment “Stevie,” performing one of his most valuable well-honed and appreciated talents known to Bucky and all of mankind.  
  
Well, hopefully not all of mankind, distinct flash of rational jealousy for an irrational image, Bucky’s loose and tangential chasing of a hypothetical tail back to his Steve appreciation thoughts.  
  
Steve getting the Captain America kigurumi zipper unstuck without tearing out Bucky’s copious groin hairs and without catching his even more tender dick skin in the process.  
  
Bucky so very much appreciated Steve’s raw talent.  
  
“Damn, Buck, maybe it’s time to retire this outfit. Don’t you think?” Steve’s words as gentle as his finger’s manipulation of the worn last two inches of zipper, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips as if that would help the stickiness. So adorable.  
  
Making it harder, yes, harder in more ways than one for Bucky to hold still. Both hands reluctantly tucked at the small of his back to keep from carding his fingers in Steve’s longish hair and assisting said tongue to find its way to his skin.  
  
Bucky just really wanted Steve’s mouth on his cock. There, it’s been said.  
  
“Use your teeth.” Bucky’s graveled stuttered beg, accompanied by the highly enticing slow thrust of his hips, teasing thirty-three millimeters from Steve’s face.  
  
“No. Not falling for that again. I used my teeth the last time. We did not succeed in getting the zipper unstuck. We did succeed in ripping the crotch out." Steve switching to his parenting tone, "I am not going to have Tasha laughing her ass off at me sewing it back together while you sulk naked in the kitchen with a paper towel in your lap. Not again.”  
  
“You skipped the good parts.” Husky-voiced reminder, spoken with reverence, “The sex part.” Bucky couldn’t help himself, one hand then the next crept from their hiding place to rake into Steve’s hair. “You’re really really good at that. You know. Your mouth, my cock. You know, come on, Stevie. Just sayin’.”  
  
Nodding an appreciative assent, Steve’s tongue still working the corner of his mouth, fingers fiddling with the zipper, tugging cautious up, folding fleecy interference, to drag the tiny metal groove across stubborn plastic teeth. His head bobbing and weaving, gaze now locked on the wayward zipper, trying to not give in to Bucky’s persuasive pressure, hands entangled in his hair, countering with equal evasion, a true match of wills rivaling their Battle on the Bridge.  
  
Steve the picture of stalwart determination, defier of at least 117 governments at the last Wiki check; derisive laughter at Senators, Representatives, and Presidents; Ender of Hydra; Scoffer at the Accords, gave in to the singularly-focused and extreme pressured pull of Bucky’s hands.  
  
Final word muffled by the embedding of his face into Bucky’s groin, “Shit.”  
  
Also muffled by Bucky’s hissed celebratory, “Yesssss,” throwing both hands in the air to allow Steve utter and complete access to do his best work.

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“How long can one human being wear a pile-producing, static-collecting, baggie-butted and yet at the same time crack-clinging, sweat-smelling Captain America Onesie?” Sam’s question appearing existential, his true meaning firmly grounded in pragmatic realism. His real concern as stated multiple times that day, "Bet me. He's got a body hidden. A hundred dollars says it's a body." He stared wide-eyed, not blinking at the pristinely cut and fabulously colored white-blonde back of Natasha’s head.  
  
She stood at the precipice of the broom closet, one foot in a mop bucket, the hard gray curly-cue of a used dry rag mop hanging an inch from her face. A state-of-the-art eighteen bulb LED headlamp strapped to her forehead, the picture of spelunking readiness.  
  
Nat’s answer spoken deep-voiced, gritted, “Unknown. But on tonight’s episode we will delve into the most mysterious of hidey-places seeking the truth,” a hint of a false echo strikingly similar to a specific television show they had marathon watched two nights earlier. Giving credence to Steve’s theory that the Travel Channel, dominating their downtime, had indeed employed some kind of mind-control subterfuge.  
  
Their mission created, planned and accepted at breakfast that morning. Find out why Barnes, dressed in the cheekily ever-present Captain America kigurumi, was slinking in and out of the broom closet employing his best furtive look-around despite everyone sitting in the kitchen while he “snuck” to spend time with the cleaning utensils.  
  
Sam’ s stage-whispered question to anyone who would listen, “Doesn’t he realized we’re all sitting here watching him?”  
  
Steve’s focus remaining on his Bucky prepared breakfast. A furrowed-brow study of a bowl of oatmeal with semi-precisely laid pieces of strawberries and smooshed blueberries in an oddly familiar pattern arranged across the surface. If he turned his head just right, it might be a shield? Maybe? His muttered unconscious answer as he cautious dipped a spoon into his homage, “He’s a ghost. Remember?”  
  
  
  
Sam’s quivering excitement at the nearness of breaching one of Barnes’s Inner Sanctums, pulled from him a sweat-producing aura that interjected itself into Nat’s highly refined bubble of “The only thing to fear is fear itself.” Her added silent addendum, “And Barnes finding out.”  
  
Wilson never saw the laser-sharp and blinding quick elbow that stunned his solar plexus taking his breath but not his hearing. Nat’s gritted order, “You’re the lookout, remember? One bird chirp if you see, hear or smell Barnes. Got it?”  
  
And then she was gone. Face-first dive, head bowed, hands shoving aside an entirely redundant and varied array of cleaning tools, quick reflection as to how many brooms are too many brooms. She forged ahead, shaking free of the bucket, shoving aside the various and sundry piles of “stuff” collected by Bucky, not Steve, all of which belonged in the Smithsonian right next to the hand-wrung washing machine.  
  
Sam’s voice a garbled murk, drowned out by the cleaning accouterments and his hyper-alert look-out duties, solemn yet a-quiver with excitement, “What’s back there? Natasha, talk to me. Guns? No, can’t be. Those are all ziplocked bagged and buried in the houseplants. Right! It’s that damn rocket launcher, isn’t it? Wait’ll Steve hears about this. Can't wait to tell him." Sam glanced at the ceiling, stealing a moment of daydreamed revenge, pulled out of it by Nat's groan, "You okay? Natasha, come in, answer me.” Sam’s wrist to his mouth, growled regret for not using their comms.  
  
Tenuous exploration, darkness surrounding, a pool of bright white from her headlamp bouncing across rags hanging like semi-soft stalactites. Her expedition came stuttering to a halt when her boot squished something on the floor. Quick glance down, the jittering light illuminating the bottom of her boot, an irrevocably flattened tube of Crazy Glue now forever combined with a demolished packet of tiny red, white and blue stars. Hundreds of stars. Literally.  
  
Dropping to her knees, yanking her boot from her foot, desperate attempt to restore the disturbed landscape, erasing her foray into the preserved environment. Little sticky blue stars, red stars clinging tenacious to her fingers. The more she tried to free herself the worse it became, hundreds, nay, thousands of red stars, white stars, scattering across the floor, sticking to her shins, spreading like a tiny patriotic plague all over brooms, mops, buckets, rags, her body.  
  
Thoughts racing to calculate whether Amazon would overnight the exact replica of the Star Box and Crazy Glue. Quiet veil of fear falling. How to distract Barnes from the broom closet long enough to obtain the replacement items. An instantaneous plan hatched, a backpedaling two and a half pirouettes out of the closet to land toe-to-toe with Sam, separated by her boot.  
  
“Clint!” Her one-word re-emergence declaration.  
  
“Clint? Clint is in there? What the hell?” Peeking over her shoulder, Sam’s fear settling deep within his soul.  
  
“No. Not in there. Dinner. Tonight.” Deft maneuver of his hand to accept the evidence stars sprinkling loose to weasel their way deep into the threads of his sweater. She hissed with great gravity close to his cheek, “We need a diversion.”  
  
Sam’s whispered demand, “What? What did you find?” His voice deeply tremulous, “What’s in there? It's a body isn't it?”  
  
“Later. You do not want to know.” A rough shove to embed the imprint of her boot heel into his chest, sprinkling stars to drop over his clothing. A shared moment of brief remembrance of Barnes at the Fourth of July cook-out, technically a memory of Steve, towel in hand chasing Barnes across the lawn; a naked Barnes covered in red, white and blue sparklies.  
  
Natasha shook off the all too vivid memory and barked, “Get rid of these. Not my boot. Just the stars.” The uneven clip/pad/clip/pad of her feet fast walking into the living room echoing in Sam’s stunned hearing

  
xxxxxxxxxx

 

“Joke’s over. Time to end it.” Steve spoke to Bucky’s big toe as it wiggled itself free through the hole in the red nubby soled faux boots. Naked on the floor, snuggling the length of Bucky’s fleecy reminder of his former persona, the bright red soft fuzzy boots still in place despite sex in their number three favorite location. The bedroom floor. Internal marveling that sex could be had, albeit not penetrative sex, but an excellent encounter regardless, while Bucky continued to wear the Captain America kigurumi in full regalia.  
  
A fact becoming a bit disconcerting to Steve. Sex with Bucky while dressed as himself. Not so bad if it were the actual Captain America uniform but a fleecy substitute...not so much. “Come on, I’ll help you get out of it. Time to put this to rest.”  
  
“No. I am on a quest.” Bucky rolled to his feet in that dizzying display of nimbleness that always kept Steve reaching for the empty space he just vacated. Figurative and literal spaces.  
  
An equal display of dexterity, Steve leaped to examine the top of the bureau, “You stopped them again didn’t you. Damn it. I thought we had an agreement.”  
  
“No. Steve. I did not stop the medications.” The sing-song lilt grating if it was anyone else but Bucky, “I’m in a battle of wills with Birdman.” He added as he stumbled out of the bedroom tugging with marked ease to pull the zipper up, “I’ve got him on the run.”  
  
Steve’s keen observance skills didn’t let him down, as he stood naked in the doorway, yelling after him, “Hey, that damn zipper isn’t really stuck. Liar.”

  
  
xxxxxxxxxxx

  
Bucky stood statue-still in the living room, back to the television, the slow left-to-right scan of his eyes, the only indication he wasn’t stuffed and stuck in the middle of the room like a Cosplayer who ran out of money, material, and motivation. Leaving them to buy the bright blue, red and white slightly ratty but still very appealing Captain America kigurumi as their costume versus making it from scratch like all the Real Cosplayers do.  
  
The chosen location for the reconnaissance of his target not random. Off the worn path in the rug and across the old wood flooring, it flew in the face of the much-debated Feng Shui that Natasha seemed to speak of with fondness.  
  
He snickered and mouthed the word at Steve behind her back the first time she invoked the concept. Not the safest thing to do. Bucky’s neck still hurt from the thigh hold she got him in on the back porch. He was pissed that she never did that crap to Steve. “What kind of dirt have you got on her? She never tries to kill you, not like me, she tried to garrote me the last time I took the milk outta the fridge. I mean it’s just milk, there’s more downstairs.”  
  
Steve never answered the “Dirt on Natasha” part of the question although he offered that drinking directly from the milk jug was frowned upon in polite society.  
  
Bucky shrugged.  
  
  
His target directly in his sights, one Sam Wilson. A.k.a. Falcon, a.k.a. “The Other Boyfriend,” when Steve made the distinct miscalculation of aligning just a bit too much with Wilson’s side of things and of course the default and preferred “Birdman.”  
  
Bucky had a plan. His singular mission as stated by himself to Steve and the Voice in his head: “Force Wilson to fork up the money to make me take the kigurumi off.” Targeted outcome: three hundred and thirty-three dollars. Methods of approach: Annoying constant wearing of the Onesie within three feet of Wilson. Day and night. Standing very very still. Staring at him.  
  
Sam slouched on the sofa, remote in his hand, fierce-pointing it at the television, a repetitive jabbing motion that seemed more of an exercise for his tennis elbow than for actually changing the channel. Of course, he had to add a little side-way action to get around Barnes when he appeared three steps closer after Sam blinked.  
  
A desperate search for the reruns of the UFC 217 bout between St. Pierre and Bisping a hell-of-a-match that made Sam want to learn some new moves hoping for an edge up on Barnes in the “friendly-wagering” department documented across the whiteboard in the gym. It grated on Sam every time he walked through the room. **Barnes 150 Wilson 0** the bold and looming score followed him everywhere he went in the room, the zero next to his name stalking him, never disappearing even when he tried to erase it or turned the lights out, he swore it glowed in the dark.  
  
Which it did.  
  
Bucky ordered glow-in-the-dark write-on-wipe-off markers for just such an occasion and because he was kind of fascinated by all this new stuff only he lied to Wilson and said: “No man, you’re dreaming." He changed the subject and offered faux support, “You can do this, keep up the good work, you almost had me that last hold. I’m still feeling it, right here." He pointed to the spot on his neck where Romanova had nearly decapitated him the week before.  
  
Sam remained unphased by the standing and staring. Or at least he tried to appear to be unphased. Life with Bucky meant they could find him in the oddest of locations on any given day.  
  
Standing naked in an empty, dry tub in the middle of the night, in the dark --- the one and only time they ever heard Natasha let out a blood-curdling girly-scream followed by “Damn it, Barnes, what the hell are you doing.” Everyone knew Barnes could move fast, no one knew he could scale the bathroom wall, somersault out the door and land on his feet in less than three seconds.  
  
The stun discs proved to be a great motivator. And why the hell did Romanova carry stun discs to the bathroom at night in her own home?  
  
They ignored the hours he stood on the back porch watching them come and go, in and out, chattering and laughing all while he stood twitchless in the corner. “Steve, your boyfriend’s creepy.” Sam had to say it mostly because it really ticked Sam off when they had to drag in a truckload of groceries while he did his Yeti impression.  
  
One of the more dramatic standing events was the time they found him in the middle of the field behind the house, naked of course. In a snowstorm. At night. Steve had to employ three bags of double stuff Oreos and the promise of sex to get Bucky back in the house; sex with Steve, not with the Oreos, although it took three trips to the washing machine to get the chocolate stains out of the sheets so on the technicality it goes to sex with Oreos for the score.  
  
  
Anyway, enough rambling.  
  
Slowly Bucky turned, step by step, methodical closing of the gap, sliding one red nubbed foot then the other towards the object of his pursuit.  
  
The all too suspicious Sam Wilson, rising from the cushy confines of their overstuffed sofa purchased online from Anthropologie by Natasha during a year-end clearance sale, sweat forming on their respective brows. Tension rising incremental each for their own reasons, Sam wondering if he had a red star stuck to his forehead, too afraid to draw attention to himself with a quick swipe at the sweat, he stood his ground, socked toes spread wide on the tastefully braided rug.  
  
Fingers twitching at their sides, Wilson’s hold on the TV remote a tight-fisted, hair-trigger readiness. Barnes’s fingers tapping sets of threes on his thighs, a distracting habit since he could do it in counterpoint. Left hand tapping a split second before the right. Squinting eyes meeting, the clock on the wall soft ticking one then two then all the way to twelve.  
  
Bucky’s gaze slipping calculating from Wilson’s eyes, to run an assessing and appreciative look over his body.  
  
Wilson squirming internal at the suspicious assessment. The remote cocked and ready at his hip, finger sweating a thin coating of wetness on the woofer button, deft employment of intense bass sound his closest thing to a weapon. Quick regret for not running his hand under the pillows for one of the nine knives he knew Barnes had stashed under there.  
  
One word muttered a single drawn-out syllable turned into at least three, Bucky’s eyes widening sending the heat of genuine fear through Wilson’s body, “St-aaarr-sss.” A quick repeat in case Wilson didn’t catch it the first time, “Stars. You have red, white and blue stars on your sweater.”  
  
“No I don’t, you’re hallucinating. Did you take your meds today?”  
  
“Yes. Wait, no. Forget that. I only answer to Steve.” Shake of his head, clearing his thoughts, “And yes, I can see them. Right. There.”  
  
The tip of a metal finger teasing between the threads of Sam’s sweater directly over where his heart should be if he had one. Bucky digging deeper, metal grazing skin, pressed scooping motion, final precise tug without disturbing the delicate threads, to emerge one finger balancing a tiny red shiny star at its tip. Triumphant smirk crossing his face, finger flaunting its treasure at the tip of Wilson’s nose, eyes crossing to take it in.  
  
Sam’s staunch denial, taking a page from Natasha’s gaslighting article that he had conveniently stashed in his nightstand, “Not a star. You’re imaging it. It’s part of my sweater.”  
  
“No, it’s not. Your sweater’s green; red does not go with green except at Christmas. Duh.”  
  
“Red goes with everything. Where have you been for the past...” Wilson catching his words, a fleeting nanosecond of regret, pulling it back to amend, “Year and a half?”  
  
“Nice catch Birdman.” Bucky moving a third of an inch closer. Red fleece fake Captain America boot encroaching on Wilson’s toes, “You’ve been in the closet.”  
  
Not one to back down even from Barnes, Sam stood his ground, not much choice with his foot pinned to the floor, “No that would be you and Steve in the ’40s.”  
  
Bucky’s sharp reach to grab the edge of the kigurumi’s hood, pulling a flinch from Sam. A dramatic pull of the fleece over his hair, narrowing eyes, taking his victory payment in the form of a bead of sweat that dripped from Wilson's nose. “Wow. Just wow.”  
  
Maybe Sam’s finger slipped on the remote, his hand was sweaty after all; anxiety triggered by the question of whether there was more of the red, white and blue evidence stuck to his face, could be the nearness of Barnes. Full on Captain America Onesie mode, hood deployed, bony toes digging into his foot, but Sam Wilson's finger engaged the TV remote. Full blast thundering of "We Will Rock You" by Queen, the walk-in song for one of the undercard fighters in that UFC fight that they all forgot about, the bass button stuck on 10, vibrating the brick-a-brac on the bookshelf and causing the nearby ficus plant to wilt ever so slightly.  
  
The two bull-headed opponents; not on the TV but in the living room barely heard Natasha's screamed announcement, “Clint’s here! Everyone. Look, Clint finally made it!”  
  
Clint Barton, amiable, not one to be easily thrown by confrontations, both televised and in real life, strode into the room, hand waving as he crossed towards them, smiling and shouting, "Is that a Captain America kigurumi? Nice. That’s great. Where's the shield? I’ve always wanted one!"  
  
Neither Wilson nor Barnes breaking their intense eye wrestle, face-to-face, mere millimeters apart, wicked serious scowls, Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes for once spoke with one united voice, shouting above the lilting and sorely missed tones of Freddie Mercury, together making an emphatic statement,  "Get in line!"

xxxxxxxxxx

  
  
“Tell me something.” Steve’s words soft-spoken, breath warm on bare skin, mouth leaving faint wetness on Bucky’s chest. Slow wandering pressure, side-to-side rounded flesh to rounded flesh, marking progression down his body.  
  
Bucky’s back pressed to the wall, breathing deep anticipation, watching, pupils wide in shadowed light, wanting Steve’s mouth to hurry, not wanting him to move too fast, murmur near to inaudible, fingers tangling hair, “Less talk, more of this.”  
  
“Sure. But answer my question,” Steve’s hands slipping to maneuver fleece to the edge of Bucky’s shoulders, near to off, not quite; his pause a teasing hesitation, “Why are you wearing this all the time? I mean I get it, you’re in this competition with Sam, this game of one-up-manship but this? What’s it about?”  
  
Head dropping, mouth pressing Steve's neck, hands pulling hips, Bucky needing him closer, scent filling his senses, knowing the answer, too uncertain to say it out loud.  
  
Steve coaxing the words, playful teeth taking an earlobe, knees finding their place, taking Bucky's willing opening, "It isn't about a bet, right?"  
  
Breathed sigh, mouth searching skin, words whispered close, "I need you next to my skin. Always and forever."  
  
Bodies moving slow in tandem, hands exploring skin, breaths matching, lips brushing flesh, "But I’m here."  
  
"We have a history you know." Tension hinting through Bucky's voice, "Losing one another."  
  
Steve cupping Bucky's face, gentle pull, gaze connecting intense, "Not anymore. Not again. Never separated again."  
  
"It makes me think of you. If you leave the room, go see people. Go places I won’t, can’t go. Every minute we’re not together, that I can’t see you, feel you. I know it’s stupid, childish. It makes me think you're on my skin." A faint shrug, Bucky willing to do anything Steve wanted, "I can take it off. I'll never wear it again if that’s what you want."  
  
Warmth spreading a sheen of redness to Steve’s skin, hearing Bucky’s confession, shared ache of losing one another, seeing his own pain play out in Bucky’s eyes, "No. It's good. I don’t care if you wear it until it falls apart. Just right now, let me take it off of you. I'll do it."  
  
  
Some souls in the outside world viewed Steve as pure of heart, a stalwart Puritanical specimen. Bucky knew better. Eyes closed, head falling back, reveling in the sound of Steve’s voice spewing expletives while pounding him into the wall, or the mattress or the shower come to think of it. Dexterity unmatched in battle and the bedroom, his profound gymnastic flexibility, ditto the bedroom; all these skills coming together in one unparalleled package.  
  
The most recent newly acquired skill brought Bucky to a whole new level of appreciation. Steve’s profound talent at tugging the very long zipper of the Captain America kigurumi down the length of his body with extreme slowness and precision. Sans pinching delicate skin, avoiding the aforementioned tender groin areas, the grazing tease to his growing cock merely Steve's tongue and not the rude raking of zipper teeth. All while keeping those liquid sparkling flecked with green but ultimately blue eyes locked in a gazed embrace with his own equally sparkling eyes.  
  
A sight to behold, Steven Grant Rogers, former Captain America, right where Bucky wanted him, on his knees with a Captain America kigurumi zipper tucked between his teeth.  
  
No wonder Steve confiscated his phone.

 

EPILOGUE:  
  
Late that night under the cover darkness, three mops, six brooms, a squeegee thing that worked best at getting snow off the windshield of the truck and the satellite dish, two former Russian assassins met in the broom closet.  
  
Barnes standing in the back corner, Steve's sweatpants hanging a bit too long, fingers curled in the hem of Steve's T-shirt, soft whispered, “Birdman fell for it?”  
  
Romanova shrugged and nodded, “He did.”  
  
Huffed quiet laugh, “Seriously? He thought I had a body in here?”  
  
Romanova answered, “Yup. He kept asking why it didn’t smell. I told him lime. A whole lot of lime. The stars were a nice touch, Barnes. He had one stuck to his butt when I saw him heading to bed.”  
  
Bucky snorted a little too loud for a former assassin. “He paid you?”  
  
“Yes, he did. Sixty for you, forty for me. You'll have to pursue the other two hundred and thirty-three dollars on your own." 

"Nah. Not divisible by three. I'm good."   
  
Natasha nodded her goodnight and made the awkward climb out of the darkened closet in silence.  
  
Waiting for her to leave, slow deep breath, Bucky slid to his knees, eyes closing, not needing the faint light filtering in from the kitchen. Metal fingers gentle tracing what he knew was there deep hidden but couldn’t quite see. A calendar nailed to the wall, month after month pinned next to next, each day with a star. Memory telling him of the order, red then white then blue, then repeat. One on each day, tied back to that day. Breath slowing deep, peace wrapping warm around his thoughts, remembering Steve’s hope, his smile, his excitement crossing the threshold of this house. Leading him home. Their home, together. Bucky wanting to remember it always. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [That Time Sam Wilson Confiscated Bucky's Sleep Pants for the Good of the Team...Or So He Thought](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010210) by [Voodoosgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodoosgirl/pseuds/Voodoosgirl)
  * [A Kigurumi for Bucky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292107) by [Pambot3000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pambot3000/pseuds/Pambot3000)




End file.
